


Words, words, words

by rillaelilz



Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Return to Treasure Island (TV 1996)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 03:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14323458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillaelilz/pseuds/rillaelilz
Summary: Ross couldn’t have looked away if he wanted to. In that split moment, everything else belonged in the background - the sailor’s tipsy curses and loud guffawing, the swaying lanterns, the tinkle of bottles and the spraying of saltwater against the hull of the ship - all of it came from a faraway place, somewhere distant and out of focus. Sharp and steady before him, there was only a young man, with the ocean in his eyes and the warmth of home in his fingertips.





	Words, words, words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mosslover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mosslover/gifts).



> This is a raffle gift for the lovely mosslover! <3 I'm afraid it strayed somewhat from the original prompt, but I still hope you'll like it, dear <3
> 
> Here are some important facts concerning this fic:
> 
> \- I am using mostly book!canon for Ross, so he's in his early twenties here (according to Graham, it's 1783 so he's supposedly 23);  
> \- I took advantage of his war injuries and kind of played them up, like, SHAMELESSLY;  
> \- for the sole purpose of this fic, both of Ross' parents are still alive;  
> \- it's been a very, _very_ long time since I last read any darkhawk fics (literal years, I guess), and I honest-to-god have no idea if/how many times this has been done before; I just hope it's even a little bit enjoyable either way;  
>  \- this whole thing freaking SPIRALED OUT OF CONTROL and in the end I just gave up and let it write itself before it drove me nuts. It's also important to notice that anything you'll find on this page is purely, utterly self-indulgent;  
> \- I am not beyond begging for forgiveness from the whole fandom. Find me on my knees on a bunch of dried chickpeas, as per old Italian traditions.

 

 

 

The first time he had met Jim, about four, five months ago, Ross had been bedridden. A nice count it was, too: scattered abrasions; a half-healed gush that sliced through his eyebrow and curved around his cheek; and a fresh scar that blossomed at his ankle and branched out towards the calf, pink and knobbly like a young, naked tree at the dawn of spring.

Quite predictably, his days had been an unremarkable blend of pain and boredom; until Jim had found him, that is.

Mr. Hawkins had had his arm in a sling, Ross recalled - bound like a babe and stained red just beneath the shoulder - but at least he had been able to amble about without aid, looking all too spry for a man who’d had shrapnel tear into his flesh.

Oh, Ross remembered the first time he had seen James Hawkins with stunning clarity. He remembered what he’d seen; a young man of twenty or so, his hair like the finest gold, his eyes like cheeky, maddening shards of blue. Ross had envied him, with his good legs and unmarred conscience, and his talent for smiling at strangers as if it were no trouble at all. And he had hated him, just a little, in his worst moments.

It had only been a matter of days. Soon, Jim’s company was more of a blessing than a burden, and Ross had found himself warming up to his new, terribly stubborn friend.

At some point, he found he no longer minded when Jim sat down at his bedside and produced unidentified card decks from his pockets; and despite himself, Ross realized that he no longer minded Jim’s prattle, either. Not when tales of past journeys and open seas put that spark in the young man’s eyes, warm and bright like the sun in July.

Ross had forgotten what it was like, to burn with passion from the inside out, to love something so much it made you feel alive.

So he let Jim talk, and drank every word that passed his lips.

 

Jim told him about the southern coasts, of their pale sand and their waters so clear, you could see the stirring bed of seaweed underneath. He told Ross about the wonders of the ocean, of its hidden treasures and perils and sleek-tailed creatures, and Ross listened, charmed despite his best intentions.

Sometimes, Jim managed to sneak in a bit of spirit, and they would share it in secret - the searing kiss of alcohol a welcome touch upon Ross’ lips.

That was how he started talking, too; trading tales and half-forgotten dreams with Hawkins as if it had always been like this between them.

And so, tongue loosened by a few sips, Ross told his friend about the claw-sharp cliffs of home, with their sweeping winds and coats of green; he told Jim about the colorful chaos of Redruth Fair, and the times he had raced Francis down at Hendrawna Beach, and whenever Jim laughed, or grinned, or asked for one more tale, something warm would kindle in the pit of Ross’ stomach.

Then Jim had leaned in close one night, moist lips and cheeks flushed pink with cheap brandy, and he had whispered - had told Ross that one day, one day soon, he would have a ship and crew of his own, and roam the seven seas in search of adventures, and Ross had almost kissed him right there and then, shaking hands and all.

 

Jim had left the hospital long before Ross could. They’d exchanged quick goodbyes, just a tad too cheerful to sound completely sincere, and Ross had spent the following weeks trying not to wonder if they would ever see each other again.

And now here they were, standing on the same deck, on the very same ship, headed towards the opposite shore of the Atlantic, New York’s harbor only a dark line between the twin blues of sky and sea.

“Going home at last then, I see,” Jim said, smiling up at Ross the same way he had half a year before. Ross was oddly pleased by it.

“It would appear so, yes,” he replied.

Jim’s gaze left him to peer down at the foamy trail they were leaving behind, his hair mussed by the wind. It was all curls, Ross could see - pretty ringlets a maiden could have easily envied. It was hard not to wonder how they would feel between his fingers.

“Cornwall, was it?” Jim asked, head cocked to the side to watch Ross.

Ross felt the grin tug at the corner of his mouth, the pull too strong not to simply give in.

“Yes,” he said, warmth pooling in the pit of his stomach, “Cornwall.”

Jim licked his lips, and in a moment, they were  _talking_  again.

 

*

 

The days passed slowly, one blending seamlessly into the next, only marked by meals and card games and small talk with the few other passengers aboard – and those members of the crew who didn’t mind a bit of chatter.

Every morning started with the wonder of sunrise shimmering on the waves; Ross had seen it many times, back home, but it was different here. The sky changed and the ocean followed, flecks of orange and gold dancing across the surface. Sometimes he stood watching until wonder turned into tedium; and when the sun was plunged in the pink and crimson shades of sunset, he knew tedium would become sweet marvel again.

It was hardly enough to keep him busy. The long weeks of convalescence should have taught Ross tolerance, or so he told himself; yet he grew impatient, stuck all day on the same ship, surrounded by nothing but saltwater and the lazy chase of cloud after cloud.

 

 

The nights, perhaps, were the easiest time. 

After a few rounds of spirits and bawdy songs from the crew, the ship usually fell quiet, all sounds fading into the darkness until only the gentle whisper of the ocean remained. It was as nice as any lullaby, and when Ross couldn’t sleep - either bothered by his wound or his restless mind - he could climb back up on deck, sit down in a corner with a blanket tugged about his shoulders, and breathe in the chilly scent of the sea.

Sometimes Jim would join him, following with near-soundless steps and crouching down beside him, their backs turned to the railing. He never failed to pull a little flask from his jacket, and they would pass it back and forth between the two of them until the bottle was half-empty, and their tongues pleasantly, if not dangerously, loose.

Even tonight, bittersweet liquor burned a winding path down Ross’ throat, ruby-dark and hot.

“You could see the ocean, where I grew up,” Ross said, tilting his head back against the wooden railing.

Jim grinned, eyes gleaming as bright as diamonds in the scarce moonlight.

“Only see it and nothing else?” He teased.

“And swim in it, when nobody was around to stop you,” Ross added dutifully. “You know how it is. Boring adults. Surely you have encountered some yourself,” he said, throwing a glance to the side.

Jim knocked their knees together, chuckling. Ross felt the sound of it sink right in his chest, pulling him apart tenderly, like a knife cutting into soft butter.

“It must have been nice,” Jim remarked, playfully nudging Ross’ shoulder with his own. Ross agreed with a little humming noise.

“I could hear the waves from my bedroom,” he recalled, letting his eyes drift closed to follow the trail of his memories. “At night, it became the only sound, save for the wind whistling in the trees.” He turned his head towards Jim, the hint of a smile creasing his lips.

“It’s not so different now, after all – except that my bed didn’t rock about with the waves, back then.”

Jim cast him a sympathetic look.

“It gets to your stomach, doesn’t it,” he said, nodding knowingly to himself.

Ross took a moment to consider it; the often-present queasy feeling in his guts, attuned to the sloshing of waters; the endless expanse of deep blue and green still ahead of them, leagues and leagues of it before any land would be in sight. And then he thought of the bloodied soil he had left behind, of the way he could still feel it under his fingernails, and drew a sigh from deep within his chest.

“It’s no worse than taking up arms was, really,” he reassured his companion, looking down at the flask that glinted, sleek and silvery, from the blanket pooled over his lap. Something sour awakened in the back of his throat, like wine gone bad. “The sea makes me less sick than the battlefield did.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Jim rested his hand on Ross’ forearm. Even through layers of cotton and wool, Ross could feel the cold touch of it, and watched with something akin to marvel as Jim’s calloused fingers furled around him, surprisingly tender.

“You get used to it after a while,” Jim murmured.

Ross wondered if he was talking about the seasickness, or the haunting memories of war, and found that neither mattered to him just then. Not as long as Jim’s hand was on him, and he could revel in the simple, disarming comfort of it.

“Does it get better?” He asked, tongue-tied and clumsy under the scrutiny of Jim’s eyes.

Jim smiled – a soft, genuine smile, and Ross was grateful for what little light he had to catch the exact shape and sweetness of it.

“If you stay for long enough,” Jim whispered.

This was something Ross had tried not to dwell on too much, ever since he’d found out that he and Jim would be travelling back to England on the same ship. The journey couldn’t last forever, although he felt that the memory, the thought, the very fact of Jim would linger in his heart and mind for as long as he lived, no matter what.

But they only had a few weeks ahead of them. And after that? What would happen when their feet touched land again? They would part ways. Ross would go back to Nampara, and Jim– Jim wouldn’t.

“I– I suppose we’d best go to sleep,” Ross muttered, fumbling with the flask and the blanket to push himself up. The moment he was standing up, pain jolted from his ankle and up through his calf, making red spots spark in his vision. Caught unawares, Ross leaned heavily against the railing, his eyes screwed shut against the stabbing pain until it subsided to a dull, pulsing ache and he was able to breathe again.

“Are you all right?”

He had barely noticed Jim scrambling to his feet; but the hand he laid on Ross’ back, in an innocent attempt to comfort, caught Ross’ attention, and it burned right through his skin.

“Yes, I’m- I…” Ross swallowed, grasping for words. Shadows danced before his eyes. “I believe I forgot my cane below.”

“Ah.”

In the pale light, Ross watched Jim’s expression change, the lines of his face transmuting from alarm into something softer, fond almost.

“I would offer you my arm,” the young man said, the beginnings of a smile hidden in the curve of his lips, “but I fear you might take offense.”

Ross couldn’t quite help a grin.

“You know me better than I gave you credit for, Mr. Hawkins.”

“Am I right, then? It would offend you?”

His hand still lingered on Ross’ back, cupped beneath the slope of Ross’ shoulder blade, rising and falling with each of his breaths. Ross was sharply aware of it, and wondered if it had captured the pounding of his heartbeat as well.

“It would be an unwelcome gesture, coming from most,” he said, and his gaze locked with Jim’s for the first time that night. He felt breathless; bewitched by the gentle, marble-smooth bow of Jim’s mouth, and the silver-like quality his eyelashes took on in the moonlight, all fairness and gossamer thread. Ross could have stared forever and still not get enough of it.

“Yet not as unwelcome, coming from some,” he continued, blood thrumming loudly in his ears.

Something shifted in Jim’s gaze. His hand slipped away from Ross’ body, slowly, leisurely, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in its wake. His smile didn’t falter; and despite the darkness, his eyes seemed to glitter like fresh snow in the sun.

“These select few people must count themselves lucky, then,” Jim whispered, breath stirring the locks of blond hair that framed his face. Warmth gathered in Ross’ belly, buzzing under his skin.

“I would say  _doomed_ , rather than lucky,” he murmured back. His fingers itched to touch, as softly and casually as Jim had touched him, as if it were only natural between them.

Jim licked his lips. “Well, then. Would you accept my help if I offered it?”

The very prospect made Ross’ fingertips tingle with anticipation. He stared back into Jim’s eager eyes, gripping the railing to steady himself.

“We can’t know,” he said. “You haven’t offered it yet.”

Jim snorted.

“And I believe I won’t offer it at all.”

He stepped into Ross’ space, took hold of his arm and linked it with his own, curling all ten of his nimble fingers in the crook of Ross’ elbow. And then he grinned, with the pure satisfaction of a child who just got away with a bit of mischief, pretty teeth on display for Ross to see.

“There,” he said smugly, patting Ross’ forearm, “it’s dark enough that you can pretend it never happened.”

“Oh, the _nerve_ …” Ross muttered, but he let Jim help him stand upright, and let himself lean into him just slightly, so as not to put too much weight on his makeshift, man-sized walking stick.

“There you go, all settled,” Jim cooed. 

Ross grumbled, but he couldn’t deny how much this, this closeness between them pleased him.

“In faith, Hawkins, I’ve never met a man as insolent as you.”

Jim simply ignored him.

“Come now,  _cap’n_ , I’m no swooning maid,” he protested instead, holding Ross more firmly. “I can take more than that! There now, let me help you.”

And they doddered away together just like that, arm in arm, fading into the quiet night, their hips meeting at every other step.

 

*

 

There were times when Jim looked like a young boy, though not in the way Francis had a few years ago, round and rosy and tender.

Soaking up the sunlight, all golden skin and tousled hair, Jim looked more like a Greek youth, a dream stolen from the ancient, born from the same frothy waves as gods and nymphs. He could have been a new Achilles, an Adonis - a young Alexander, poised to conquer the world, his eyes set on the horizon and reaching well beyond. 

And Ross wanted him, ached for him, for the faintest touch of his hand, a yearning so deep it made the blood thicken in his veins. He lived for the moments when Jim would come to him, and they would drink from one bottle, and Ross’ lips would rest where Jim’s own had rested.

“Here, cap’n,” Jim said, shaking Ross from his thoughts. He reached in the folds of his jacket and passed Ross the usual, tiny flask, and it felt strangely heavy in his hand. 

“Looks like you might need it,” added Hawkins, the corners of his mouth tipped upwards in a kind smile. Backlit by the setting sun, his hair changed, darkened to the hazel-like hue of ripe wheat, familiar enough to stir memories in Ross’ heart. He swallowed; he never knew what to make of Jim, of what Jim meant to him. It was sweet, and it was foreign; it was home, and it was not.

Ross drank, taking a slow swig of liquor. Rum spilled on his tongue, dark and hot and unexpected, and then scorched its way down his throat, leaving a sugary aftertaste behind. Ross’ eyes watered and stung, hit by the glare of sunlight over the sea.

“Thank you, my friend,” he murmured, passing the flask back to its owner. He brought a hand to his thigh, shifting his weight from one foot to the other; his leg was acting up again, the stupid, stubborn thing.

Jim must have noticed, for he slipped his arm around Ross’ own and patted it gently with his free hand.

“Come now, Mr. Poldark,” he chided, “you shouldn’t strain yourself so much.”

Ross huffed and sighed, but he let Jim steer him towards the cabin he and two other passengers shared, his cane held uselessly at Ross’ side.

“I will be glad when this is over,” Ross muttered, glaring down at his bad leg.

“So will I,” Jim echoed him, shoulder brushing against Ross’ every two steps, “but then, I shall miss being able to lend you my arm.”

Something lodged deep within Ross’ chest trembled, caught by surprise. He tried to meet Jim’s gaze, but Jim was facing away from him, only the crease of a smile visible, and the gold-lined slope of a dimpled cheek. Ross licked his lips, looking away in return.

“Well.” He said at last. “I shall miss it, too.”

Jim’s arm curled more snugly around him. If Ross leaned into him a bit more than necessary, it was only his business and nobody else’s.

 

*

 

Below deck, the lanterns cast a soft, tawny light about, turning the ink a fuzzy amber color in Ross’ hands.

Usually hidden in his breast pocket, Ma’s letters were a crispy, weightless comfort; a piece of home to hold onto on his bad days. Sometimes it felt as if the only thing he could truly look forward to, upon setting foot on English soil again, was his mother’s smile.

“Are they from someone special?”

Sitting next to him, Jim tilted his head to the side, gesturing to the crumpled sheets of paper in Ross’ lap. Ross’ thumb smoothed over the signature, stroking the swooping curves and elegant lines that made up the name,  _Grace Poldark_. A wild streak barely contained by the neat wording; it was just like her.

He could almost see her, standing against the breeze, her dark hair whipping about her frame - her gaze half-kindness and half-mischief.

“My mother,” Ross confessed, smiling down at her name with fondness.

When he looked up, Jim was smiling back at him, his dimples showing, bracketing the subtle curve of his mouth. All of him turned softer in the dim light, somehow - his chin smoother, his nose finer, his cheeks made golden in the tangle of shadow and light. It was breathtaking.

“She must be a lovely lady,” Jim remarked. Ross’ heart fluttered with pride, and with something entirely different, too.

“Aye, that she is,” he said, only partly aware that he was speaking in the first place. “She is a wonderful woman.”

Jim’s smile widened, his lips parting to reveal a row of pearl-white teeth, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Ross couldn’t have looked away if he wanted to. In that split moment, everything else belonged in the background - the sailor’s tipsy curses and loud guffawing, the swaying lanterns, the tinkle of bottles and the spraying of saltwater against the hull of the ship - all of it came from a faraway place, somewhere distant and out of focus. Sharp and steady before him, there was only a young man, with the ocean in his eyes and the warmth of home in his fingertips.

“I should like to meet her, someday,” Jim said. His hand came up to rest on Ross’ bad leg, the palm cupped just above his knee; Ross stilled, letting the sheer heat of it seep through his clothes and underneath his skin.

“I hope you will,” he murmured.

He closed his eyes, let his head loll back, touching the wall with a muffled thud. The pad of Jim’s thumb stroked back and forth over his sore knee, soothing the ache in Ross’ body, as well as the longing that kept blooming in his heart.

He could have fallen asleep just like that, Ross told himself; curled up in a corner, Jim’s touch on him like a sweet treat, his voice like a lullaby as the young man hummed an old shanty under his breath. Yes, he might have just… dozed off…

 

 *

 

The night before they landed, the winds were quiet. The sea was a peaceful expanse of black around them, dappled with moonlight; and yet there was turmoil in Ross’ heart. All was calm, except for him.

“Where will you go? When this ship lands,” he asked softly, eyes fixed on the ocean. His throat still burned with the rush of alcohol. “You never did tell me.”

Next to him, Jim was more shadow than man. Ross couldn’t spy the gold of his hair, nor the amber of his tanned skin. Everything was hidden - everything but his eyes, blazing fiercely on Jim’s brow as their gazes met.

“Because I do not know yet.”

For a long moment, Ross was silent. He stood there, breathing in and out to the shallow rhythm of the waves, hands tucked away behind his back so they wouldn’t shake quite so much. Then, “Will you stay on and become a sailor?”

The ghost of a smile stretched awkwardly on Jim’s lips.

“Perhaps,” Hawkins said. He swallowed. “But you see, it has been brought to my attention that there is quite a bit of land that I have yet to explore, before I resume exploring the ocean.”

From the nape of his neck to the base of his spine, Ross’ skin was tingling, his whole body so still he might as well have been holding his breath. A little beacon had been kindled in his chest - fragile and shivering like a lonely candle’s flame, but it was there all the same, and how warm it felt when he reached out to it.

“Is that so,” he could only say. Jim nodded, and Ross watched as pale light danced over his skin, circling the delicate indents of Jim’s dimples.

“Yes,” Jim said, taking a careful step forward, “Cornwall, for instance. I’ve never seen Cornwall for myself, but I’m told it’s quite charming.”

Hope spread within Ross like lukewarm water, bringing feeling back into his fingers and blood in his chilled limbs. He grinned, stupidly pleased and half-giddy already.

“Indeed,” he offered, lips barely moving at all.

Jim cast a quick glance about, as if to make sure that they were alone. He stepped closer, and his coat wafted around his legs with the soft, intimate whisper of cloth against cloth. Ross couldn’t tear his eyes off of him.

“I have a friend, you see,” Jim went on, lifting his gaze from the parted lapels of Ross’ shirt and slowly up to his face, “and he said to me, he said- you must absolutely visit Cornwall, Jim, you can’t miss out on that, he said.”

“Ah, I see.” Ross leaned in, conspiratorial grin and all. “A man should always listen to his friends,” he agreed, and his breath stirred the curls that lay by Jim’s cheek. He looked down in Jim’s eyes, distracted by the fragile frame of golden eyelashes there, and when they crinkled at the corners, all happy lines and prettiness, Ross knew that he and Hawkins were on the same page at last.

“Yes, I think so, too,” Jim murmured, all but glowing in the moonlight. He fisted his hands in the front of Ross’ surcoat, pulled him in and pressed their lips together, with all the determination of a soldier on the field. Ross staggered, unsteady on his feet, and groaned when the sudden swaying forward upset his injured leg.

Jim pulled away at once, holding onto Ross’ forearms to keep him upright.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have–”

“No no no,” Ross shushed him, grasping at Jim’s sleeves to find purchase.

“Just…” He paused, his throat strangely dry. “… Gently.”

For a moment, they stood still, crowding each other’s space, listening as breaths came and went and silence fell like a fresh coat of snow upon them.

Then, at last, Jim moved; cautiously, wordlessly, cradling Ross’ face in the palm of his hand. His fingertips grazed the twisting line of Ross’ scar, crossing it to find the supple flesh of an earlobe, the silky texture of his dark hair. Ross hardly dared to draw breath.

“Like this?” Jim asked, so softly it was almost drowned out by the sound of the waves, as they broke and rippled against the ship’s hull.

“Yes,” Ross whispered back, nearly breathless with desire. “Yes, like this.”

The words were barely out of his mouth; Jim reached up, boots creaking as he pushed himself on his tiptoes, tipped his head back, and kissed Ross again. This time, Ross didn’t stagger - he put his arms around Jim and gathered him close, kissing him back, parting his lips to taste the salt on Jim’s skin.

Jim’s hand curled at the nape of Ross’ neck, fingers lacing with his hair. The pad of his thumb smoothed over Ross’ olive skin in a careful, loving gesture that sent shivers down Ross’ spine.

When their tongues met and Jim pressed their bodies together, Ross lost all sense of time. For once, it seemed, there was no need for talking. No need for talking at all.

 

 


End file.
